


Closer To

by recrudescence



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Body Worship, Fanart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a time when he assumed Arthur was one of those austere souls used to sleeping face-up on top of the covers with his shoes still on and weapons laid out on the pillows as neatly as complimentary mints.</p><p>Written on behalf of Team Romance for <a href="http://ae-match.livejournal.com">ae_match</a>. Art by Platina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer To

**Author's Note:**

> Also inspired by [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=37303557#t37303557) on the kink meme: _Eames exploring Arthur's body, head to toe, or actually, toe to head, starting from the feet and making his way up slowly. Arthur is mostly passive about it, yet mildly fascinated/secretly loving the attention._

No one expects Eames to be an early bird. Maybe it’s an ingrained habit after years of military training and even more years of boarding school prior to then, but more often than not he’s ready to face the day before Arthur has even budged from under the blankets.

There was a time when he assumed Arthur was one of those austere souls used to sleeping face-up on top of the covers with his shoes still on and weapons laid out on the pillows as neatly as complimentary mints. Arthur, adept at challenging Eames’s suppositions even unconsciously, happens to be something of a sybarite when he sleeps for any reason not related to work.

This morning, Eames ends up getting up earlier than usual. They’re in Atlanta and he’s still on Glasgow time, whereas Arthur is probably worn out from the welcome he gave him the night before. The sun isn’t even over the horizon by the time Eames is finished showering and Arthur, who doesn’t seem to have moved at all, is covered by the comforter except his feet and the top of his head. He’s a sitting duck for all manner of nefarious folk who could conceivably come bursting through the door, though Eames does his best to choose his doors with great discretion for this very reason.

Eames perches back on the bed and curiously trips a fingertip along the sole of one foot, watching as Arthur’s toes curl a bit in response. His feet are narrow, elegant for a man, nails neat-clipped and clean, heels callused in Eames’s cupped hands. He slides them up beneath the covers, inching the blanket a little higher.

There’s something very Victorian about seeing his ankles and getting hot and bothered, but not so Victorian as to keep Eames from kissing there, feeling the softness of hair and the heat of skin, letting his teeth drag against the bone. Above him, there’s a muffled groan as Arthur lifts his head enough to muzzily ask, “What’re you doing?” He sounds more asleep than awake and looks much the same, not unappealingly. Arthur has to work very hard to pull off unappealing.

“Just taking everything in,” Eames says blithely, tugging the blanket to the side so he’s completely exposed, sleepy and bare and stretching. Arthur’s nose wrinkles when Eames kisses along his calf. Gradually, he kneads upward with both hands, enjoying how ticklish Arthur is at the back of the knee. He gives a judicious kiss to each kneecap, since he’s very fond of Arthur’s knees and the things he’s capable of doing with them.

“It feels like you’re cataloging my parts before selling me by the pound.”

Eames taps his legs apart and brushes his lips along the inside of one thigh. “Have to inspect my stock, don’t I?”

“Mmph,” Arthur grunts, sleep-rough, but with a hint of humor. “Let me know if it’s not up to par.”

Carefully, Eames skates a fingernail over the scar twining its way up Arthur’s leg, one of many imperfections he relishes because it’s a part of Arthur, who’s private to a fault and no longer puts up a fuss about allowing Eames to see and feel and know these things about him. “No fear of that.”

Eames tracks the same path with his mouth and Arthur lets him, sprawled there with his eyes half closed and his cock half hard, rosy and curved. He squirms a bit when Eames kisses the inside of his other thigh, nosing at the join of his leg and groin but avoiding contact anywhere else. Just to make him twitch, Eames gives a little nip to the arch of his ribs, then runs a hand up his flank to urge him over. “On your tummy.”

“I’m not _three_ ,” Arthur mutters, but he obeys anyway.

“I did notice,” says Eames, and tries a bite at the apex of one arse cheek. Unlike a normal person, Arthur doesn’t squeak or protest, instead heaving a long sigh and seeming to melt into the mattress a bit. Eames smiles into Arthur’s back and molds his palm to the small of it, taking in the sensation of bed-warmed flesh and the tickle of hair. “Did you know you had a freckle there?” he asks, licking just above a dimple at the base of his spine.

Arthur mumbles something none too coherent to begin with that only slides further into inarticulacy when Eames slips a finger down lower and then between, there where he’s still clenched and tight, slickness still evident when Eames touches more intimately. It’s a thing of beauty to have Arthur groaning luxuriously and burrowing his face into the pillows just from the smallest hint of penetration, the sort of thing that has Eames imagining coming in him—no condom, no uncertainty—and being able to work him open and have his fingers emerge painted white. Someday, he’ll initiate this conversation; it’s nothing they haven’t dreamed already, and he suspects Arthur would be game for it topside as well.

He strokes there once more before turning his attention back to marking freckles with kisses, remarking on them to Arthur. “And you’ve got one on your bum, right here,” flicking the tip of his tongue to it. “And up here,” licking a spot near the midpoint of his shoulder blades.

Eventually, he loses track of which ones he’s already counted and ends up kneading his hands down his arms, tracing the veins of his forearms. Arthur looks so mild and administrative in his slim-fitting suits, but his arms are remarkable. There’s a guileless artistry to the interplay of flesh, muscles, and tendons when he reaches to interlock their fingers while Eames lavishes attention on the nape of his neck. As always, prolonged contact there has him humming and wriggling, but he lets himself be ushered onto his back once again when Eames manhandles him into position.

He’s just as liberal with his touches, mouthing at his stomach, nuzzling at the scarce hair on his chest, tripping his fingers over his ribcage. Arthur twists in place when Eames skims the tightness of his nipples, tries to twist away when a thumb brushes against his armpit. He stops moving altogether when Eames eases overtop him, which only lasts a moment since Eames devotes his full attention to debauching Arthur’s neck with lips and teeth and a little shrewdly applied sucking. It isn’t long before he can feel the quickness of Arthur’s pulse, the smear of precome against his stomach.

“Eames,” Arthur starts, and it’s too raspy to be a whine, but still quite close. Eames just slips his two smallest fingers into Arthur’s mouth, letting him sigh and suck to his heart’s content. He spends just as much time focusing on his ears, which makes Arthur rut against him since he’s delightfully sensitive there and loves letting Eames exploit that.

Eames scrapes his teeth along the scar tissue marring his shoulder, chuckling when Arthur gives a groan. “You’re a twitchy one this morning.”

“That,” Arthur answers, “is because there’s some hot naked guy chewing on me.” But one of his hands is already stroking the back of Eames’s head.

“It sounds right pervy if you put it like that,” Eames says, kissing his eyelids and watching the way his lashes flutter, avoiding his mouth when Arthur tries to arch into a proper kiss.

He finds other things to occupy his attentions, threading his fingers through bed-head and losing himself in the softness of Arthur’s hair— no trace of gel, just long enough to show the traitorous curls Arthur so diligently slicks into submission. When Eames’s nails graze his scalp, Arthur sinks blissfully into the sheets, idly touching himself, splayed out and unselfconscious. Such a far cry from the dreamsharing upstart who used to shield himself with scowls and invectives if Eames looked too long at him.

“I think,” Eames says quietly, “that that about covers it.”

There’s a vague, tender smile on Arthur’s face. Eames can’t believe he ever thought he slept with a gun in his hand. “Did your inventory go okay?”

“As far as I can tell, everything is just as it should be.” Eames steals a quick kiss and gives him an appraising look. “Vastly exceeding expectations, even. An excellent factory model.”

Arthur is raising a brow at him and rather blatantly nudging his erection into Eames’s hip. “You don’t even want to make sure all the parts work correctly?”

“Of course. It’s an integral part of the process.”

Eames is expecting for Arthur to give him some cheek about saving the best for last, but instead Arthur rolls over and, for lack of a better word, envelops him. Eames’s hands card through his hair a second time, one of Arthur’s legs slips between his own, and Arthur’s mouth is soft and sweet when it covers his own, the two of them fitting together so easily it makes Eames’s wits go wobbly in a way Somnacin never does. No cheek, no chitchat, only kissing him until they’re both gasping for breath, until Eames feels every muscle in that strong body pleading for release.

He never quite got around to pronouncing him perfect, but he has a feeling Arthur won’t fault him for it.

 

  



End file.
